


Lone Wanderer

by fingonsradharp



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Brief Description Of Corpses, F/M, First Meetings, Fluff and Angst, Found Family, Fëanorian Redemption, Maglor is a Sad Farmer Cryptid, Mutual Pining, Original Character-centric, Secret Identity, Sharing a Bed, no beta we die like the high kings of the noldor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-10
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:27:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26384131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fingonsradharp/pseuds/fingonsradharp
Summary: Ríngilith was traveling with her uncle Amroth and his beloved Nimrodel when they were separated. Now, she is alone in the mountains, searching desperately for her companions, and for a place to stay during the storm.Makalaurë has been living in exile on the borders of Gondor for almost a thousand years. When Ríngilith shows up on his doorstep, asking for his help, he hopes he may have a small way to put some good into the world after all the pain he has caused.
Relationships: Maglor | Makalaurë/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 81
Kudos: 73





	1. A Voice on the Wind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Ríngilith finds a house in the mountains

_**Summer, T.A. 1981** _

The sky grew darker, clouds swirling in the sky with the promise of a storm.

Ríngilith cried out, calling for her lost companions. Or perhaps she was the one who was lost; she was not sure. They had all been separated while passing through Ered Nimrais, and she had begun to lose hope of ever finding them again. 

“Fedhínen!” she called. “Mithrellas!” Each time, she heard no answer.

She began to grow desperate. The Sun was beginning to set, and she had no shelter. She did not want to spend the night in the mountains alone. 

Snatches of a voice came to her on the wind. It was not her companions, nor any voice she recognized. Someone was singing. 

Ríngilith stumbled towards the sound, clutching her cloak around her shoulders as the wind swirled around her. 

She wandered for over an hour before the rain began pouring down from the sky, drenching her to the bone. But there were no caves in which she could wait out the storm, so she continued following the voice, trudging on through water and mud. 

She saw a small house nestled into the side of the mountain, almost hidden by the rock. She all but collapsed against the door, hoping, praying that whoever dwelled here would be kind to her. 

The door opened to reveal an elf with a glow in his eyes and skin. He held a blade in one hand, brandished defensively. 

She took several quick steps back, careful not to trip over her cloak, bringing her hand to her own dagger. 

“Who are you?” he demanded. 

“Ríngilith Hallothiel,” she stammered. “I have been separated from my companions, and I do not know where I am, and the storm—!” She was cut off by a boom of thunder that shook the house. 

He sheathed the blade and offered her his hand. She hesitated, wary of the way he towered over her, his dark hair and wild eyes, which softened upon seeing her fear. “I am Erandir. I am sorry that I startled you. No harm will come to you here.”

Ríngilith took his hand and stumbled inside, shivering, her clothes dripping water onto the floor. “Thank you, _hîr-nín_. You are very kind.”

“You must be freezing.” He took her cloak and hung it on a hook by a fireplace to dry. “I will get blankets for you, and perhaps some tea?”

She nodded numbly, and he turned to go into a different room. While he was gone, Ríngilith looked around. The house was simple, with few decorations. It was lit by several lamps along with the small fireplace in one corner. To her left was a table with a single chair and a ladder that led up to a lofted bed, separated from the rest of the room by a curtain. As she went to warm herself by the fire she noticed a stack of letters written in what looked to be Quenya. Ríngilith could speak Quenya quite well, but she could read and write only in Sindarin. 

_What kind of place is this,_ she thought, _that an Elf from the Blessed Realm would live here alone in the mountains?_

 _And can he be trusted? The Golodhrim were dangerous folk in the Elder Days._ She shook her head, chastising herself. _The days of Kinslaying are ancient history. I will find no harm from another elf._

_Besides, if he wanted to kill me, he could have easily done so when I first arrived._

He returned with several knitted blankets. “Please, make yourself at home,” he said. “The storm will not let up for some time.” His Sindarin was good, but he spoke with a distinct accent that she could not place.

She wrapped the blanket around her shoulders. “What is this place?” she asked.

He smiled softly, and her breath caught. “It is my home. I do not live among other Eledhrim, so I dwell here.” He looked up, not quite meeting her eyes. “What are you doing so far south?

“I was traveling to Edhellond with my _emelhanar_ and some others, but we were separated. I cannot find them.”

Erandir nodded, looking troubled. “These mountains are treacherous, and there is no other shelter nearby.” He paused. “When did you last see them?”

Her lower lip trembled. “Three days ago, my _emelhanar_ disappeared. I thought that he had gone on ahead, but his betrothed wanted to go back and look for him. We searched and searched, but we could not find any sign of where he had gone. Eventually she disappeared, too. Yesterday, we were attacked by Men. I escaped, but…” Tears began to trail their way down her cheeks. “I cannot find the others. I do not know whether or not they live.”

Erandir began to reach out as if he wanted to take her hand, but thought better of it. “I fear there is not much we can do while the storm persists. But when it clears, I will help you look for them.”

Ríngilith stared at him. He didn’t even know her, and yet he was going out of his way to help her. “Thank you,” she said again. “Was it you that was singing before the storm broke? I heard a voice on the wind.”

He froze. “I… it is possible,” he said stiffly. He swiftly stood and walked behind a counter, upon which a tea kettle had begun whistling shrilly. He poured two cups and brought them over, handing one to her. 

It was made of tin, painted with leafy designs, and a hammered flower adorning the place where the handle met the lip. Warmth radiated from the cup, thawing her frigid fingers. 

The tea was still steaming, but Erandir drank it without hesitation. The sky lit up in a flash of light, and the entire house shook as thunder boomed, and Ríngilith shivered, pulling the blanket tighter around her. 

The tea tasted of raspberries, spreading warmth throughout her _rhaw_ , all the way down to her frozen toes. Before she knew it, she had drained the cup, and finally stopped trembling. 

Erandir was silent, staring into his teacup. Ríngilith took the opportunity to study her host.

He was tall, much taller than her, though he seemed hunched, as if he had been beaten down by a great weight on his shoulders. His features were sharp and angular, hard but not unkind. His hair was dark brown, almost black, and unbound, shorn just below his shoulders. 

“I am sorry about the sword,” he said. “No one ever comes out here, and I—I was paranoid.”

But Ríngilith shook her head. “One can never be too careful. If I were a warrior, I would likely have done the same.”

The corner of his mouth quirked up, and Ríngilith found herself fighting off a blush. “What makes you think I am a warrior?”

“You… you are…” she trailed off, the tips of her ears bright red, and tried to find the right words. She could see the muscles of his arms and broad shoulders beneath his tunic, and his hands—his left hand, at least, the right was covered with bandages—were callused and scarred, as those of her mother and grandfather had been. “You have the look of a warrior. I did not fight in the wars against Sauron myself, but I know many who did. I can tell that you are one of them.”

Erandir’s smile tightened into a grimace, but he quickly schooled his features back into neutrality as he stood. “You should get some rest,” he said. “You will need your strength if we are to look for your friends tomorrow. Do you have dry clothes?” he asked as he took her empty teacup from her. 

She took off her still soaking wet pack and shook her head. From a drawer, Erandir pulled a tunic and a pair of breeches and offered them to her. “I can hang your clothes up by the fireplace, and they will be dry by morning.”

He turned his back to give her privacy. The clothes were soft and warm, although much too big for her. The breeches bunched up around her ankles, and they had to be laced very tightly in order to stay secured on her hips. 

Erandir hung her soggy clothing by the fireplace, beside where her cloak was already drying. 

He met her eyes for the first time, and she was startled by the intensity of his gaze. His eyes glowed so brightly she thought she would be set ablaze by them. 

Ríngilith found herself growing more and more curious about him. Who was he really? Surely “lone wanderer” is not a name one would be born with. Why did he live here in exile, instead of sailing West? But she supposed it was not her place to ask such personal questions to someone she had just met. In truth, she herself was not even sure why she was sailing, only that she felt trapped in Lothlórien. But would Valinor truly be any better? At least there, they would have peace. She would be able to see her parents again. 

She hadn’t understood when her brother Calithil had left their home to study under one of the Istari, but now she did. They lived in isolation, in fear of every small darkness. 

Other elves that left to go West usually seemed tired, like they had grown weary of the world. That was how her father had described what he felt. But Ríngilith did not feel that way. She was instead restless, wanting to try new things and explore, to not have to be afraid to step outside her home. 

Erandir’s voice shook her out of her thoughts. “You really should get some rest.” He gestured to the bed before sitting down in a chair by the fireplace. “Hopefully, the storm will have died down by morning.”

Ríngilith nodded and climbed up to the loft. She curled up beneath the warm blankets and tried to convince herself that she would find her companions. 

_They are not dead,_ she assured herself. _We will all be reunited, and sail together in peace._

The rain pounded on the roof. It didn’t take long for her to fall asleep. 

* * *

Makalaurë could not sleep. 

Not that he had been trying particularly hard. After Ríngilith’s breaths had slowed to a steady rhythm, he kept meaning to get up from his place beside the fire and get some rest himself. He had brought more blankets and laid them on the floor, but he was far too jittery to sleep now. 

He lived deep in the mountains bordering Gondor; no one had found him there since he had built the house centuries ago. Ríngilith must have been well and truly lost to have come to him here. 

_She followed the song, you fool,_ the voice in his mind whispered. _You have revealed yourself. They will take you as a prisoner. Every elven leader in Arda would love to see you dead for your crimes, and now they will carry out your sentence._

_I will take whatever comes. Artanís would make it quick, at least. Oropher would likely make me do it myself; he wouldn’t want to sink to my level except in uttermost need. Amdír would likely be the same. And Elrond—_

He squeezed his eyes shut to stop the tears at the thought of his not-son. 

_Elrond deserves closure. He deserves justice for all I have done to him._

Elrond would surely kill him. He was kind, far too kind for his own good, but Makalaurë had done the unforgivable. He had claimed the boy and his brother as his sons, adopted them into the House of Fëanáro, forced them to pretend that they loved their captors. 

_They called me_ atto. _Nelyo and I promised ourselves we would never lay a hand on them, so instead we did far worse._

He would not weep. Not now. He had a guest, and he would not wake her with the sounds of his own misery. He deserved this. He deserved everything that had befallen him, and everything that would come next. 

The fire had turned mostly to embers. Makalaurë could still hear the rain outside, showing no signs of slowing down. He forced his mind back to the present. 

_Ríngilith is here for shelter. I will help her find her companions, make sure she gets safely to Edhellond, and then I will leave. I will find someplace else, even more hidden, where I can never hurt anyone again._

He closed his eyes, still in the chair he had been in for the past several hours. Hopefully things would be clearer in the morning.


	2. Welcome to the Struggle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Makalaurë has a nightmare, and he and Ríngilith make a plan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter was originally going to be the search for nimrodel and co., but maglor decided that he needed to have a guilt crisis first

_Two tiny elflings sniffled in the corner, holding each other._

_“Nelyo!” Makalaurë cried. This would work, this would end it, though it could not bring his brothers back._

_The children scooted to the side slowly, trying to escape notice, but Makalaurë leveled his sword at them. He would not harm them, he would not have to._

_Maitimo’s face was stone as he entered the tent. “Elwing went over the side of the cliff with the Silmaril.”_

_The air left his lungs. The children went still, but Makalaurë barely noticed. Maitimo kept speaking, but he did not hear. It had all been for nothing. They had killed so many people, they had lost everything, all for nothing. The Doom had come true; they had failed so utterly._

_“Káno? Did you hear me?”_

_He snapped his head up to meet his brother's eyes. “What?”_

_“She turned into a seagull. She’s still alive.”_

_He didn’t have the energy to be shocked by that. Makalaurë turned his gaze back to the twins, who looked at him with terror in their eyes. “Please don’t kill us,” one of them whispered. The other shushed him quickly, squeezing his eyes shut and burying his face into his brother’s shoulder._

_Makalaurë sheathed his swords and walked towards them as they cried out. He crouched to pick one of them up, and the other twin shouted, clutching his brother and pounding on Makalaurë’s arms. “Get the other one,” he told Maitimo. “She’ll come back for them. We can make a trade.”_

_But Maitimo just stared, stricken, at the crying elfling pleading for his twin. Something flickered in his eyes._

They will not be harmed. _Maitimo’s voice was hard and forceful in his mind._

Of course not. They are just children. _Maitimo could not possibly think that Makalaurë would hurt them._

_He realized with horror that it would not be out of character for the Sons of Fëanor to kill children._

They will not be chained. They will not be starved. They will be treated well, as if they are our own people.

_Makalaurë nodded, but the elfling in his arms just cried harder. “Come on,” he said, in what he hoped was a soothing voice, and handed him to Maitimo._

_He picked up the other twin and began to sing a song of sleep to stop their screaming._

* * *

Makalaurë woke just as the sky began to lighten.

He took a deep breath, shaking his head to clear it. He could not wallow in misery today. He had things to do. 

He stood, casting the last of his dreams from his mind. _Breakfast. I made bread yesterday, and I should still have some butter left._

The air was pleasantly cool in the aftermath of the storm, still filled with the smell of rain. Makalaurë went outside, collecting fresh water from the stream. He leaned his back against his almond tree and closed his eyes. 

The tree welcomed his mind eagerly, a questioning tendril of thought in response to his sorrow. He explained as best he could, sending an image of himself leaving the mountains.

The consciousness turned cold, in what he had learned over the years was a form of sadness. _Where will you go?_

Makalaurë was not sure. He had found some semblance of peace in these mountains, near a small forest and river, where no one ever came. Until Ríngilith. 

_There is still one place I could go. One place no one would ever find me._

_But I have no way to get there. I would need a boat, and I will_ not _steal one._

The tree seemed to embrace him, and its voice was joined by that of the others he grew. 

It was comforting; that even if he could not return to his fellow Eldar, he would always find a home among the trees. 

A realization began to dawn on him, mounting his horror. He had a _home_ here. He had peace, tranquility. He did not deserve those things. He could not forget what he had done. He had to leave. He should not have built something permanent, he should not have—!

“Erandir?” Ríngilith stood in the doorway, still wearing his clothes. Her hair was true to her name: it shone silver like starlight, bright against his black tunic. “Are you alright?”

Makalaurë looked at the ground, careful to guard his thoughts. “Yes.” _No._ “Yes, I am fine.” _I am not._

She pursed her lips, as if she were debating whether or not to press him further, but she decided to take his word. A part of him was disappointed; something about her made him want to trust her, to confide in her. 

_I cannot burden others with the weight of my own mistakes,_ he reminded himself. _That is why I am in exile. To stop myself from returning to my old ways. So that I will hurt others no more._

“I expect your clothes will be dry by now,” he said. “I have a few maps; we can plan where to search while we eat breakfast.”

Ríngilith nodded. “That… sounds good.” They walked back into the house together. 

Makalaurë put the water he had collected onto the stove, and lit the fire to boil it. He looked in one of his cabinets, and — yes, he had been right — pulled out a loaf of bread and some almond butter. He cut the loaf in half, spreading butter on each, and handed one to Ríngilith.

“Do you grow everything yourself?” she asked.

Makalaurë nodded. “Most everything. There is a village not too far from here; sometimes I’ll play in the tavern and earn some coin for anything I can’t make myself, but I don’t do that very often.” Folk in the town asked far too many questions, and he didn’t want word of his whereabouts reaching Artanís in Edhellond.

“You’re a musician?”

“Yes. I can play just about anything, but harp has always been my favorite.” His harp leaned against the wall in a corner, surrounded by loose sheets of paper with a half-finished melody. 

“What about you?” he asked, adding tea leaves to cups. “Where are you from? Eryn Galen?”

Ríngilith shook her head. “Lothlórien. My _emelhanar_ was the king there, until he decided to sail. I _really_ didn’t want to be queen, so I went with him. It would have been my brother, he’s older, but…” she sighed. “He left about a century ago. He befriended one of the _Istari_ , Radagast I think was his name, and went off to learn magic. I haven’t seen him since.”

“So you are the granddaughter of Amdír?” He handed her the tea. This must mean that he was dead. Makalaurë tried to feel sorry for his loss, but he couldn’t.

She nodded. “You knew him?”

”I…” _Curufinwë’s eyes were lightless as Amdír shoved him to the ground. His blade was covered in blood. He turned on Makalaurë, his own eyes burning with hate._

_”You will burn, Fëanorion!”_

“We were never formally introduced. I knew that he had a son, but I was not aware that he had a daughter as well.”

“She was born in the Havens of Sirion.” Ríngilith looked down. “She was killed in the first war against Sauron.”

Makalaurë sucked in a breath. For a horrible moment, he had thought that Ríngilith would say that her mother was killed in the Third Kinslaying. “I am sorry. I know what it is like to lose family to war.”

She shook her head. “It’s alright. It was a long time ago. And I am sure that she is safe and happy in Valinor.” She looked back up at him. “My father sailed not long after that. He was never a warrior; he preferred healing. People say that I’m like him.”

“But you don’t believe it?”

She shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. He only ever told my mother anything about himself. She was the only one who knew him, really.” Her expression was guarded, as if she were trying very hard to pretend that she didn’t care. “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m telling you this, it’s just—” she took a deep breath. “You are very easy to talk to.”

 _I am?_ “No, it’s okay, I—I like talking to you.” He would try not to think too hard about the implications of that. 

Ríngilith looked down. “I’m worried about my friends. I didn’t know any of them very well, but I don’t want to go back to where we were attacked and find out that they’re dead.”

Makalaurë pulled out a map. “Can you show me where it was?”

“We were passing through the mountains here,” she said, pointing. “Once we crossed, we were going to follow the River Ringló until we reached Edhellond.”

Makalaurë nodded. “Then you’re not too far off course. We’ll be able to get there in a few hours.”

They began packing. Ríngilith changed back into her own clothes: a tunic, dyed green, that wrapped around her waist and had puffy sleeves, and simple leather leggings. 

Makalaurë wrapped up some food: strips of dried meat and fruit, enough for a few days. He had two waterskins, and he filled them both before handing one to Ríngilith. 

“Hopefully there won’t be another storm,” he said. “There are some caves, if you know where to find them, but they are few and far between.”

“I hope they found someplace safe to wait it out yesterday.” She looked up at him. “Do you think we’ll find them?”

He hesitated. “I don’t know,” he said. “If you were separated two days ago, and you couldn’t find them yesterday…” He could almost hear Tyelkormo’s voice in his head: _Stop being so damn pessimistic, Káno_. “But it is certainly possible. Perhaps fate will be with us.” As if it ever was.

He slung his pack over his shoulder and strapped his sword to his belt, hoping that he wouldn’t need it. “Ready?”

She nodded. “Thank you for helping me. Is there anything I can do to repay you?”

Makalaurë was silent. He should not accept this, this kindness that he had never shown. He was cursed, exiled, hated, and rightly so. For her to look at him as if he were none of that… he did not deserve it. 

But perhaps he could pretend, at least for a little while, until she found her companions.

“I know little of the world today,” he said aloud. “Would you tell me the tales of this age?”

Ríngilith smiled, and his heart fluttered strangely. “Of course. I would be delighted to share them with someone who has not heard them before.”

He couldn’t help but smile back, and for the first time it felt real, without an underlying bitterness. 

The Sun was warm as they walked outside, climbing her way up to her peak. The air was quiet. Ríngilith’s hair glittered in the light, almost mesmerizing. 

They set out into the mountains together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title from the talk °fahrenheit song


	3. Dead Ends and Promises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Maglor is a hypocrite

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i’m sorry this has taken so long, college has destroyed my concept of free time
> 
> i rewrote the beginning literally this morning, so if you see any mistakes, no you don’t ❤️

Ríngilith told Erandir the stories she knew of the Third Age, such as the wars of Angmar and Arnor, and how Lord Glorfindel of Imladris drove away the Witch-king. 

“Wait a minute,” Erandir said. “Glorfindel, as in, of the Golden Flower? Of Gondolin?”

Ríngilith nodded. “The very same.”

“Isn’t he dead?”

“It is said he was sent by the Valar to aid against Sauron, but none but he knows what his true mission is.”

Erandir blinked. “Okay.”

She then told him of the darkness awakened in Moria, and the flight of many in her kingdom. “They say it was a shadow and a flame.”

Erandir’s face darkened. “I hope they are wrong. There are many things the Great Enemy twisted into being, but that describes a Balrog.”

Ríngilith’s mouth fell open. “It cannot be! I thought they all were destroyed.”

“I thought so as well. And with any luck at all, they were, and this is some new menace.”

She stayed silent. She was not young, even as the Elves reckoned, but still Balrogs seemed like ancient horrors out of the old stories, never something that could still exist. 

“That is why so many of us have decided to sail,” she said. “The Dwarves are being forced out of their home, and we’re afraid that we will be next.” She brushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear. She would need to redo her braids soon. “Some fled to the Woodland Realm, others to Imladris.” She had considered both of those places, but ultimately had decided to follow her uncle. A small part of her had begun to regret that decision. She didn’t feel ready to leave Middle-earth yet. 

“Have you ever been to Imladris?” Erandir asked. 

She nodded. “Once. My brother and I were ambassadors for Lothlórien a few centuries ago. It’s quite beautiful, but we weren’t there for very long.”

Erandir’s expression was pained. “Do you have any news of Elrond? I… I knew him, when he was a child.”

“Not much, I’m afraid. I have only met him a few times. He has three children with Celebrían, daughter of Galadriel and Celeborn.”

Erandir smiled, and it finally reached his eyes. “That is good news indeed. Thank you.”

She eyed him curiously. “Forgive me if I am overstepping,” she began, “but why do you not live in an Elven settlement? I know I have said that there are not many Noldor left, but there are still some, and most of them live in Imladris.”

His face turned sad again. “I would not be welcome there. It is best that I remain in exile.”

_ Another answer that answers nothing.  _

As far as she knew, the Exiled Noldor were no longer barred from Valinor, and they were certainly not exiled from other elves in Middle-earth. In fact, she knew of one named Edhellos who resided in Lothlórien. 

But she resolved to drop the issue, for now at least. He had already been so kind to her, and she did not want to push his boundaries. 

“This is where we made camp,” she said. “The night before we were attacked.” The remains of a campfire lay scattered on the ground, though the signs of their presence had mostly been washed away by the rain. 

“We shouldn’t be far, then,” Erandir said. “Do you think you could retrace your steps? The storm has made it very difficult to track effectively.”

Ríngilith nodded. “This way.”

* * *

The more time she spent with Erandir, the more at ease she felt. 

She knew that this was counterintuitive; she didn’t know him, and the more she learned the more mysterious he seemed. Any guess she could make of his identity was too absurd to be true. Certainly, he had to be a displaced warrior from the First Age. An escapee from Angband, perhaps, or a former Fëanorian supporter. He was dangerous, that much was clear. 

But there was something about him, something unnameable, that made it easier for her to focus, that made her feel safe. It was no form of magic, of that she was sure, but nevertheless it was some aura of care and comfort.

Until, at least, they reached the battleground. 

Blood painted the ground. There was a broken sword and a crushed shield, both laying strewn in gouges in the earth. 

Several feet away was the familiar body of an Elf. 

“Fedhínen!” Ríngilith rushed over to her friend and dropped to her knees. 

Her face was graying, her curly hair caked with mud. The dress she had been wearing had been all but torn off, and her legs were covered in blood. Ríngilith covered her mouth and fought the urge to vomit.

An arm wrapped around her shoulder, and she allowed herself to fall back into Erandir’s chest. Sobs clawed their way from her throat. She shivered, curling in on herself as she cried. 

She hadn’t known Fedhínen very well—the  _ elleth  _ had been very quiet—but to see her like this was more than Ríngilith could take. 

_ It can’t be, no, she was so peaceful and kind, she  _ cannot  _ have ended like this! _

“Why would they do this?” she asked brokenly. “We— we were peaceful, we were not warriors, we were no threat to them—!”

“I know,” came the steady reply next to her ear. “It is senseless violence, and the fault is theirs alone.”

“They just  _ left _ her here.” The smell of rotting flesh permeated the air, and her breaths turned shallow. “I have to do something. I can’t leave her like this.”

“We will, we will. It’s alright, just breathe, okay? Breathe with me. You’re safe.”

Tears streamed down her face.  _ I left her. I left her, and now she’s dead.  _

She squeezed her eyes shut. “I should have stayed, I should have helped them, but I ran like a coward.”

“Hey.” Erandir took her by the shoulders. “You are not a coward. There was nothing you could have done.” He put his hand on her cheek, and his eyes were soft and wise and understanding. “We will put her to rest, and honor her, and then we are going to find who did this.” An edge came into his voice, and Ríngilith was glad he was on her side. 

They had nothing to dig a grave with, so Erandir placed Fedhínen’s body in the campfire, and lit it aflame. 

Ríngilith watched her friend burn, the tears trailing their way down her cheeks. Erandir no longer held her, but he was strong and reassuring beside her, though his expression was haunted. 

“The others must still be out there,” she said. “Mithrellas isn’t here, so she must have escaped as well. And Amroth and Nimrodel are still lost.”

“Do you know of anywhere they may have gone?”

She shook her head. “I’ve never been this far from Lothlórien before. But Amroth likely would have gone on ahead to wait for us in Edhellond.”

He nodded. “Is that where you will go, then?”

“I suppose so,” she said, wiping away the rest of her tears and beginning to walk away. “I’ll just have to hope that they’re there when I arrive, or that they aren’t far behind.”

“I can accompany you as far as Ethring, but I dare not go further. I may be able to find someone who can take you the rest of the way.”

“You do not have to do that.” Ríngilith found herself stumbling over her words. “You have already done so much for me, and—”

“You shouldn’t travel alone.” He said. “These mountains are not usually dangerous, but with a group of raiders about, you should still be careful.”

He was right about that. She truly didn’t want to be alone, especially after seeing what had happened to Fedhínen. And Erandir made her feel safe; she didn’t like the thought of leaving him. 

_ You don’t even know him, _ she chastised herself.  _ He lives alone for a reason. You would only be a burden. _

“I would hate to impose on you,” she said aloud. “If you would take me as far as the nearest village, I would be beyond grateful.”

He dipped his head towards her. “As you wish.”

* * *

At their camp that night, Makalaurë made a plan. 

Revenge was not something he desired, not after all these years alone, not after all of his mistakes and regrets. 

But the Ered Nimrais were under his protection, and any group of raiders that would kill so ruthlessly did not deserve to be shown mercy. 

He would know. He was just like them. 

So once he was certain Ríngilith would be safe, he would hunt them down. 


	4. The Broken Arrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which there is only one bed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we meet the babies today!! maglor adopted an entire dnd party, so here’s the obligatory Tavern Scene.

Ríngilith rambled. 

She didn’t want to think about Fedhínen, who was dead, or Mithrellas and Nimrodel and Amroth, who were lost and each on their own. She didn’t want to think about how every hour that passed brought her closer to leaving her home and throwing her into an unfamiliar realm where she had no idea what to expect. 

So she talked about whatever she _could_ think of: her brother, her friends, even her parents, though it had been millennia since she had seen them. 

Erandir was a good listener, watching her with a soft smile on his face that made her stumble over her words. She tried to ask him about himself, but he deflected any questions and became very uncomfortable when her attention was on him. 

Erandir had sent a raven ahead with a message to “people he trusted”. The town wasn’t far away, and it took them only two days to reach it. It was hardly a village, with a few scattered buildings hugging one side of the river. They first saw some farmland and homesteads, with farmers that watched Ríngilith and Erandir as they passed by. He seemed to grow nervous as they got closer to the cluster of buildings, but he stayed silent, running a hand through his dark hair in a way that made it almost impossible for her not to stare. 

They stopped in front of a small tavern, and Ríngilith could hear voices and quiet laughter inside. 

“What language is that?” she asked. 

“It’s called Westron,” Erandir answered. “In bigger cities you’ll find people who speak Sindarin, but with small towns like this, few do. But I’ll be able to translate.”

She nodded. She didn’t like not knowing what people were saying, and she hoped that she would be able to communicate with whomever she ended up traveling with. 

She looked at the sign above the door blankly, and Erandir leaned down to murmur in her ear. “It’s called ‘The Broken Arrow’.”

She nodded and followed him in. 

The room quieted a bit as they walked in, several patrons turning to look at the two elves that had just walked in, one of them glowing slightly. They seemed to be used to Erandir, but regarded her with suspicion. She stepped closer to him, wanting to take his hand but unsure if she should. Their fingers brushed, and he twitched, bringing his hand up to scratch his shoulder. 

He spoke again in Westron to the bartender, a scruffy Man with dark skin and hair. He nodded to Ríngilith in greeting and poured two glasses of what looked to be wine and handed them to him. Erandir gave one to Ríngilith and led her to a table in the corner. 

“There are people here that should be able to take you the rest of the way,” he said. “I trust them, and they’re good kids. You’ll be safe with them, I promise.”

She nodded, trying not to feel too disappointed about the thought of leaving. “What will you do?”

His fingers tightened around his glass. “I’m going to look for those raiders that attacked you.” The glow in his eyes seemed to darken. “If they’re anywhere in this part of the mountains, I’ll find them.”

“Thank you,” she said. “I… I really appreciate that.” 

Erandir inclined his head, his gaze never leaving her face, and the thrill that rushed through her was almost unbearable. 

She sipped her wine to hide her blush. It was good, she supposed, for having been made by _edain_. The tavern was small, but well built, and she could tell it had been made with care, by people who loved their town. 

Erandir glanced behind her, and his expression brightened. She turned to look, and saw four _edain_ entering the building, talking and laughing amongst themselves. They grinned upon seeing Erandir, and whispered excitedly to each other when they saw her. They certainly weren’t children, but they were young, perhaps not yet fully grown, though it was hard to tell with humans. Ríngilith liked them instantly. 

They made their way over to the corner table, two of them squeezing in next to Ríngilith. The tallest, and seemingly the leader, a stoic-looking young man, nodded at them both before drawing one arm across his chest in a sign of respect. “ _Mae govannen, híril-nín,_ Erandir.”

Ríngilith could hardly contain her relief at being addressed in her native tongue. “ _Mae govannen!_ I am impressed that you know the language of my people. May I ask where you learned it?”

“Erandir taught us,” the man replied. “My name is Rowan, this is my sister Mirabella, and our friends, Wilhelm and Quinn.” He had a sword strapped to his waist, which seemed to match the sword Erandir carried. 

She smiled at them. “My name is Ríngilith. It is very nice to meet the four of you.” She looked back at Erandir and raised an eyebrow. “I thought you lived alone, speaking to none?”

He smiled. “These four happen to be an exception.” He looked down at the table, his pale cheeks suddenly colored red. “As are you.”

Ríngilith’s heart seemed to explode in her chest, and her thoughts swirled so quickly that she did not have time to distinguish a single one. 

Next to her, Mirabella downed the rest of a wine glass, and it was only then that she realized the girl had stolen it from Erandir. “The elders in the village always told us to beware of elves stealing away children. But I think _we_ were the ones that stole _him_.”

Erandir laughed nervously. “True enough, I suppose.” For a moment, his face seemed to hold deep sorrow and regret, but it passed so quickly that Ríngilith wrote it off as her imagination. “These four are a group of adventurers I met a few years ago. There is no one I trust more.”

Across the table, another young man who was quite tall and quite skinny (Wilhelm, if she remembered correctly), made an excited _ooh_ sound. “You said you had a job for us, right?”

“Whatever it is, we’ll take it,” said Quinn beside him. “Things have been extraordinarily slow around here.”

“Ríngilith is traveling to Edhellond,” said Erandir, “to sail West. She’s been separated from her companions, and I need you to keep her safe until she’s there.”

Once again, her mind whirled. _He_ wanted her to be safe, _he_ cared about her well-being. It made her feel quite a bit more than it probably should, and she pinched herself under the table. 

Mirabella bounced in her seat with excitement. “I’ve always wanted to go to Edhellond!”

“And we would be honored to escort one of the Fair Folk on such a journey,” said Rowan. 

“I cannot thank you enough,” said Ríngilith. “I… It has been…” _I do not want to leave Middle-earth,_ “…difficult, without my friends. I hope to find them there, and I hope they are safe as well.” She looked down, thinking of Fedhínen, and how it had been too late for her to travel to a peaceful land. Was she selfish for wanting to stay?

Wilhelm smiled at her. “We can leave in the morning, if that’s alright with you.”

She still had quite a bit of coin left, as they had not found many towns on their journey south. She forced herself to smile. “That sounds great.”

“But Quinn is playing tonight, and I promise, you’ll want to listen.”

Quinn held up a small, handheld harp and grinned. “I always play on Tuesday nights,” they said. “Get ready to dance.” They nudged Mirabella in the ribs and walked over to a small stage in the opposite corner. 

The room quieted as they stepped up, paused for effect, and began to play. 

The song began slowly, but gradually sped up until Ríngilith recognized it as a song she had heard in Imladris. And upon second glance, their harp looked elven-made. 

Erandir was looking at them with pride, and she recalled the harp that lay in the corner of his home, and the sheet music beside it. She smiled. For all Erandir pretended to be alone, he had adopted these children, longing for a real life and a family. 

Wilhelm stood and offered his hand to Mirabella, inviting her to dance, and she took it gladly. The pair began to spin each other around with the same practiced steps she had been taught in the hidden valley. The patrons of the tavern clapped in rhythm. 

She looked at Erandir, a glint in her eye. “Care to dance?”

He looked baffled for a moment, then smiled. “I would be honored.”

He took her hand and led her to the center of the floor. “Have you heard this song before?”

“Only once,” she replied. “It’s a Noldorin folk song, is it not?”

“It is,” he said. “Written in Valinor during the Years of the Trees.” He placed one hand on her waist, and held her hand with the other. She looked up at him, one arm resting on his shoulder. She longed to tangle her fingers in his dark curly hair, but the music sped up again, and their dance began.

Erandir spun her around, and she laughed and stepped and jumped to the beat of the clapping and the plucking of strings. 

* * *

Makalaurë felt happier than he had been in centuries—millennia, even. He never wanted this moment to end, with Ríngilith shining in the dim light and the laughter and the song he had written in happier times. 

He wondered where she had heard it before, surprised that any of his compositions had survived. Surely everyone, especially Elrond, would have wanted to destroy any work of his that remained. 

When the dance ended, Ríngilith smiled up at him, her eyes dancing with joy. They were the deepest blue he had ever seen, darker and more free than the ocean. He held her close for a moment longer before letting her go, and his smile slipped for a moment. 

_She doesn’t even know who I am._

If she did, she would not be looking at him the way she was now, as if he were _good_. 

She squeezed his good hand before turning to chat with Rowan, and Mirabella skipped up to him and poked him in the ribs. “So. How do you know her?”

He chuckled. “I don’t, really. She got lost during the storm a few days ago, and she came across my house.”

“Mm. So now you’re hopelessly in love with her, of course.”

“I—what?” he sputtered. “What are you talking about?”

Mirabella rolled her eyes. “You are completely transparent. _She_ may not notice, but that’s only because she’s just as crazy about you.”

Makalaurë fell silent. He used to be so good at concealing anything he felt, but Mirabella could read him like an open book, as usual. 

“It doesn’t matter,” he said quietly. “She’s sailing to Valinor.”

“So convince her to stay,” she said. “Or, better yet, _sail with her_.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m not _allowed_ back in Aman, okay?” He immediately felt guilty for snapping. “And even if I was, I have a cousin that lives in Edhellond, and she very much wants to kill me.”

Mirabella stepped back, shocked at his outburst. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly.

Makalaurë panicked. “It’s alright,” he said. “I’m the one who’s sorry.” He had never revealed so much to any of them before, and he definitely didn’t want it to come out like this, in a way that would hurt them. He pulled Mirabella into his chest and held her. “I’m sorry,” he said again. “I didn’t mean to be upset with you. I’m not upset with you. I just—” he closed his eyes for a moment. “I need her to be safe.”

“We’ll protect her,” Mirabella promised. “I won’t swear it, but I give you my word.”

He laughed softly and kissed the top of her head. “If you find any word at all of those raiders, let me know when you come back.”

Mirabella nodded. 

“And please… I have no right to ask this of you, but please do not mention me to any you may meet in Edhellond. They won’t know me by this name, but I don’t want to risk it.”

“Of course,” she said. “We’ll protect you too, _atya_.”

He ruffled her hair and forced himself not to cry. “You all ought to get home now,” he said, “before it gets late.”

Rowan and Ríngilith walked up to them. “Are the two of you staying here tonight?” Rowan asked. 

Makalaurë nodded. He didn’t normally stay at the inn, but he didn’t like the prospect of traveling back at night. It would be easier for him to leave in the morning, at the same time as the others. 

He reached for his coin purse to pay for a room, but Ríngilith stopped him. “Please, let me.” He was about to protest, but she spoke again to cut him off. “You’ve already done so much for me.” She took out her own purse. “But I’m not sure how much—”

“Three silver pennies a room,” said Wilhelm. 

Ríngilith handed them to him. “I don’t speak Westron, so would you mind getting it for us?”

Makalaurë nodded again, and walked up to the bar. The bartender, Hadrian, looked at him with mild annoyance. “Anything I can get for you?”

“One room for the night, please.” Makalaurë coughed. “With, um, two beds.”

Hadrian nodded and took the silver, making a note behind the bar. “Up the stairs, second door on your left.”

“Thank you.” He received a grunt in response. 

When he returned, everyone was congratulating Quinn on their performance. Makalaurë joined in, clapping them on the shoulder. “Well done, kid. I’m very proud of you.”

Quinn beamed and thanked him. “I am _exhausted_. See you guys in the morning.” They leaned their head on Rowan’s shoulder and closed their eyes. 

Rowan laughed. “Come on, you atrocity, let’s get you home.” He turned to Makalaurë and Ríngilith. “It was very nice to meet you, my lady.”

“Likewise,” she said. “But I’m with Quinn, the best thing right now would be a good night’s sleep.”

So they said their goodbyes and good nights and walked up the staircase. But when Makalaurë opened the second door on the left, he froze. 

There was only one bed. 

“I asked for two, I promise.”

Ríngilith remained silent. 

“I’ll take the floor, you—”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, walking in and setting down her bag. “We have been sleeping next to each other for the past four nights, and there’s plenty of room.”

Makalaurë swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. 

_She doesn’t even know who I am._

But he lay down anyway, staring at the ceiling, Ríngilith’s rhythmic breaths beside him. They didn’t quite touch, but he could feel her skin, so close and yet so distant, he could hardly bear it. 

She fell asleep astoundingly fast, but Makalaurë stayed awake, his heart pounding. She turned in her sleep, until she was curled against him, and tears filled his eyes. 

When was the last time he had been touched like this, as though he were a protector and not a killer, someone to be loved instead of feared. 

This was so much more than he deserved, this happiness, this peace, and he hated himself for craving it more than anything. 

Makalaurë closed his eyes, allowing the tears to trail down his face and onto the pillow. She was so close now, and if he were to turn just a bit, they would be face to face. 

In the morning, she would be gone, and he would return to his exile and emptiness. 

Perhaps, for a few moments longer, he could pretend. 


	5. I Could Never Hold a Perfect Thing and Not Demolish It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which i’m bad at summaries

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heyo i’m back, the plot ran away from me for a bit but i think i’ve got it back now

Ríngilith woke feeling unusually calm, and it took her a moment to realize why. 

She was lying on her side, her back pressed against Erandir’s chest with his arms around her. She could feel his soft breath against the back of her neck, and he radiated warmth. 

She thought that if she never had to move again, she could live the rest of her life in happiness. 

The sun had not yet risen, and the room was still dark. There was likely still an hour or so before they would have to get up, so she closed her eyes again and drifted back off to sleep.

* * *

When Makalaurë woke, he felt more rested and at peace than he had in millennia. He couldn’t remember how long it had been since he had slept without dreaming of blood and fire, of burning light and burning hands and burning ships and burning brothers. 

The curve of Ríngilith’s spine fit perfectly against his body, and their fingers had intertwined during the night. Her silver hair was in his face, but he didn’t mind it somehow. The color almost reminded him of something, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. 

How long had it been since he had held someone in his arms like this? The last time had to have been… Elrond and Elros. But this was different. 

Makalaurë paused as his thoughts went blank for a moment. _Why_ was it different? Well—Ríngilith obviously wasn’t a child, but that wasn’t it. He had been protecting her, but now she had better people to protect her. People that could protect her from him, too. So, really, it wasn’t different at all. 

He repeated it to himself to try to quell the growing anxiety in his chest that quickly began to replace the peacefulness. But in moments, all his muscles were taut, and though he held Ríngilith tighter he couldn’t release the tension. He didn’t want to let go. But he should—anything someone like him wanted couldn’t be good.

She shifted in his arms, and a spark of true panic ignited in his stomach. He moved away, sitting up on the edge of the bed with his back to her. The burns on his palm began to itch, and he tucked his injured hand between his arm and his side. He forced his breathing to remain quiet, if not steady, squeezing his eyes shut and digging the nails of his good hand into his palm. 

He could hear Ríngilith move behind him, now awake. He could feel her gaze on him, but he couldn’t bring himself to turn around. 

“Erandir?”

Makalaurë didn’t react at first, temporarily forgetting that the name belonged to him. When she said it again, he flinched so hard that he punched himself in the knee, eyes wide and heart racing. 

Ríngilith winced, now at the edge of his field of vision. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“It’s alright,” he choked out. “You don’t—There isn’t—” He sighed, shaking his head before beginning again. “Are you ready? They’ll be meeting us soon.”

She looked momentarily confused, but nodded and stood up. His eyes trailed over the curves of her body, a few strands of hair falling loose from her braids. His mouth went dry. 

He forced his gaze down to his hands. He shouldn’t look at her like that. She had come to him in desperation, without knowing anything about him and not pushing further than he was willing to go. He could not think of her in any way other than someone he could help in a small way; it could never make up for all the evils he has done, but it was something. 

Four days of company and companionship and he had already let himself act otherwise. 

He picked up his pack and strapped his sword to his belt, lacing up his boots and very carefully _not_ looking at Ríngilith. 

The inn was quiet in the morning; the only sounds were those of the owner, Hadrian, cleaning up and getting ready for the day. Makalaurë would not have been surprised if they were the only guests that night. 

Hadrian eyed them warily as they descended the rickety steps. “Getting going?” He tried unsuccessfully to hide his relief—not all of the people in this town liked that an elf lived so close to them. 

Makalaurë forced a smile. “Yes.”

Suspicion rolled off the man in waves. “Where’re you off to?”

He quickly translated to Ríngilith, and she nodded to let him know that it was okay to tell him where she was going. “I will be returning North, and the lady is on her way to visit her kin in Edhellond.” It wasn't quite the truth, but Makalaurë did not want to tell him that she was sailing West. After the whole Númenor incident, he thought it was best if _atani_ simply forgot that Aman existed. 

Hadrian just grunted and went back to wiping tables. 

Outside, the sunrise painted the sky in splendid colors, and Makalaurë shifted uncomfortably as he avoided the gaze of Arien. 

“ _E_ _dain_ are a very strange folk,” Ríngilith said suddenly. 

Makalaurë couldn’t help but laugh. “I suppose so, but one gets used to them after a while.”

She smiled at him, and a shiver ran down his spine. “And we must seem quite strange to them as well.”

“Definitely,” he said. “ _Edain_ have grown distrustful of _eledhrim_ , though I am told it is not so bad further south.”

“Come with me to Edhellond, then.” Ríngilith intertwined her fingers with his, and his cheeks burned. Perhaps for the Sindar this was simply a friendly gesture? “Then, you could be among those who do not look at you sideways simply for existing.”

Makalaurë almost wanted to laugh. Should he go to the Elven city, he would be locked up and imprisoned, if his cousin Artanís did not kill him on sight. 

But he almost wanted to go with her anyway, even if it would mean his death. If only she would keep looking at him with hope in her eyes.

“You are kind,” he finally whispered. He smiled sadly, wistfully. “Aman is beautiful. I believe you will like it there. But I shall never attempt to return.”

“Why?” She blinked up at him, and in her eyes were the depths of the sea he had spent so long beside. He liked this better, he thought, which he supposed was why he was glad this would be ending soon. Playing at this semblance of normalcy was torture.

He could never answer her questions. The way she would look at him if she knew… it was more than he could bear. It was selfish to keep his identity a secret, selfish to continue running from his fate. Would it be better to accompany her, to face those he had hurt and stop hiding from everything he had done?

But as long as he was still alive, there was a chance, however small, that his brothers and father would be allowed to remain in Mandos instead of being thrown into the Endless Night. He would keep them from that as long as he could. 

“It’s okay,” Ríngilith said, letting go of his hand and giving him a small smile. “You don’t have to tell me.”

His fingers felt cold at the loss of her touch. She looked radiant in the sunrise, the silver of her hair gleaming and her tan skin glowing with her own inner light. She didn’t look much like Amdír, he decided. He wondered who her father was.

“Erandir!”

He turned to see Wilhelm attempting to tie his hair back without knocking his elbows into the bow he had strapped to his back. The others were behind him, thankfully looking like they had taken his advice and gotten a good night’s sleep.

“Here, let me.” Makalaurë carded his fingers through the boy’s hair and tied it into a short horsetail. In his own culture, it would be seen as a very familial gesture, and probably quite presumptuous of him, but _atani_ had no such customs.

“You went hunting today?” He asked in Sindarin for Ríngilith’s benefit, noting that despite the early hour, Wilhelm was already slightly damp with sweat and dirt.

The boy nodded. “Unsuccessfully. All the animals seem to have been scared off, and I saw the tracks of many men I didn't recognize. I’m worried that those raiders you were telling us about may be coming closer this way.”

Makalaurë narrowed his eyes. “How far away from the village?”

“About two leagues northwest. I went further than I normally do, but I came straight back when I saw the tracks.”

“ _Hessanta,_ ” Makalaurë cursed. That was much too close for his liking. He turned back to Ríngilith, who was watching them with fear etched on her face. “I have to go,” he told her quietly. “I’ll find them, I promise.” She nodded wordlessly, and he added, “If any of your companions are with them, I’ll make sure they’re safe.”

“Thank you,” she whispered. Makalaurë hoped that he wouldn’t find them, that they would be waiting for her in Edhellond. Ríngilith shouldn’t be alone when she sailed.

He just hoped that if he _did_ find them, Amroth wouldn’t recognize him.

Rowan appeared beside him, his face stony as usual. Mirabella punched her brother’s shoulder. “Lighten up, would you? You look like you’re about to kill someone.”

“He always looks like that.” Quinn protested.

“Only when you’re around,” Rowan said.

Ríngilith giggled at their banter, and the light sound brought a smile to Makalaurë’s lips. He turned and clasped Rowan’s forearm. “If you need anything,” he said, “you know how to contact me.” Rowan nodded, his hand unconsciously drifting to the sword at his hip.

He turned to Mirabella and pointed sternly at her. “Do not pickpocket those with the power to make your life difficult.”

She shrugged. “Worked on you. But, as we have established, you are a pushover.”

For a moment, he was rendered completely speechless. Everyone laughed, including Ríngilith, whose eyes danced with merriment at his shocked expression.

“Oh, what a fearsome conqueror of the Elder Days!” Quinn said dramatically. “How the orcs must have trembled beneath your noble blades, the most terrifying bard the Noldor could witness, a warrior who drops everything for four human children and apparently also elves he’s never met.”

This time, even Makalaurë chuckled, but it was hollow. He _had_ been fearsome, but not noble. He helped children home because of the two that he had stolen long ago, he tried to save lives because of the countless ones he had taken, not orcs of the Enemy but his own kin.

He looked at Quinn, trying to dispel thoughts of flame and death. “Songs of Power are for _emergencies only_ , you don’t need to tire yourself out every time you want to impress your friends. Yes, I did notice it last night.”

Quinn’s shoulders drooped, but they didn’t look apologetic in the slightest.

Makalaurë put his hands on Wilhelm’s shoulders. “Please make sure you all come back safely. Your parents will kill me if you don’t.”

He rolled his eyes. “We’re grown adults, Erandir. We can take care of ourselves.”

Lastly, he turned to Ríngilith. He wanted so badly to take her hand again, but he held himself back. “You’ll be okay,” he told her. “The way isn’t much further, and in this part of Gondor you’ll find more towns than in the north.”

She placed her hand over her heart, her eyes never leaving his. “Thank you,” she said, “for everything you have done to help me. I won’t forget it.”

He returned the gesture and gave a subtle bow. “I hope you find your family and friends,” he told her. “And I wish you all the happiness Valinor has to offer.”

Her eyes glistened, and she turned to leave with the adventurers. Makalaurë walked in the opposite direction, towards where Wilhelm had found the raiders’ tracks. Ríngilith’s tears on that bloodstained battleground came back to him and made him see red. He wouldn't allow them to kill again.

* * *

Ríngilith looked back, but Erandir was already walking away. His strides were long and purposeful, and he was traveling much faster than he had been with her. Thankfully, the _edain_ were not nearly as tall as he was, and thus did not have to slow their pace in order for her to keep up with them as they walked through the town.

“Was he truly a fearsome warrior in the First Age?” Ríngilith asked. They had obviously been jesting, but she _had_ originally thought that he was quite intimidating.

Rowan nodded. “He fought in the Wars of Beleriand, but he won’t tell us much of where he was during them.”

“Not that it would mean much,” Wilhelm said. “Beleriand doesn’t exactly exist anymore, so we aren’t familiar with the geography.”

“Are you sure you haven’t met him before?” Mirabella asked. “He seems to trust you.”

Ríngilith furrowed her brow. In fact, ever since she had woken up properly, a strange feeling had been growing in her chest. Erandir _did_ seem familiar, like a song she couldn’t quite remember, a melody she couldn’t put her finger on.

A faint memory of a cliffside drifted through her mind, but she couldn’t place it. She shook her head. “I’ve lived in Lothlorien my whole life,” she told them, “and though I have traveled, I’ve never been as far south as Gondor before.”

Quinn hummed. “Did you ever go to Beleriand?”

She laughed. “Beleriand had already sunk by the time of my birth. The only thing that remains of it now is Tol Himling, and that island is cursed.”

Quinn tilted their head to the side. “Tol Himling… that sounds familiar.”

“I thought it was Himring?” Wilhelm asked.

“It used to be Himring,” Ríngilith said. “Back when it was ruled by Maedhros Fëanorion.” She shuddered at the name. She knew he had once been a great and well-respected lord; when he ruled Himring he had been regarded as someone who would help anyone who came to him seeking aid. She supposed he had not always been evil.

“Erandir used to live there,” Mirabella said. “He said it was always very cold. Why is it cursed?”

“Almost anything that has to do with the Fëanorians is cursed,” she told them. “Though I’ve heard rumors of relics in Imladris, and no evil is permitted inside its borders.” She was quiet for a moment. It wasn’t as if it mattered where Erandir had spent the First Age. She would likely never see him again. “If he lived there, it is likely that he _was_ a great warrior.”

Quinn actually giggled. “I’m sorry, I just can’t picture that.”

Mirabella looked at them in shock. “Did you just forget about the time I tried to sneak attack him and he threw me so hard I couldn’t breathe?”

Quinn rolled their eyes. “Yeah, and I remember him _crying_ when he realized what he had done.” 

Rowan snickered. “You flew so far. It was hilarious.”

Suddenly Ríngilith missed her own brother more than anything. She and Calithil had once been so close, and now she had no idea how long it would be before she saw him again.

She tugged at the _fae_ bond they shared. He was too far away for her to send a proper message, so she poured all the love she could muster and sent it his way, hoping he would feel that she was thinking of him. A moment later, she felt a surge of love back, and tears sprang to her eyes. She hoped that wherever he was, he was happy.

Something prickled on her skin, and she felt the hair on the back of her neck stand up.

“Something’s wrong,” she said.

Rowan glanced around before jerking his chin forward to gesture up ahead, where a man dressed in dark clothing leaned against a tree while sharpening a knife. Ríngilith could feel his gaze lock onto her, and he broke into a twisted grin.

“That’s one of them,” she said in a hushed whisper. “One of the ones that…” _killed Fedhínen._ She couldn't say it out loud. The memory of her friend’s bloody and gray skin was too near.

Rowan kept his gaze on the man. “We split up. Will, find a high spot and keep an eye on everything. See how many of them there are. Bella, hide. I’m expecting him to follow us, but if he moves at all I need you to tail him. _Keep out of sight._ Quinn and I will be with Ríngilith. I’ll let Erandir know we’re in trouble.” Wilhelm and Mirabella were off, and Rowan turned and led her and Quinn back the way they had come.

Ríngilith started. “How can you contact him? He’s gone.”

Rowan gripped the hilt of his sword and drew it partway out of its sheath. There was an eight-pointed star engraved at the base of the blade. 

She gaped. “That is the symbol of the House of Fëanor.”

“What?” Quinn said. “That’s a Númenorean star.”

“It is called Luhtalírë,” Rowan said. “It is the twin of Erandir’s blade. Since he injured his hand, he doesn’t dual-wield anymore, so he gave it to me.” He sheathed it again, and began walking faster. “It allows me to call him if I need help. He says it’s similar to _osanwë_ , but I’ve… never actually had to use it before.”

Ríngilith wanted to look back and see if he was following them, but she couldn’t bring herself to turn her head. All she could see were the brutal faces of those men, the sound of their taunts as she ran, Fedhínen’s scream.

She hoped Erandir would be back soon. Just the thought of seeing him again made her breaths begin to calm. She didn’t know how many the raiders numbered, but she hoped it wasn’t any more than the few that attacked them. A few, they might be able to handle. But a large group could threaten the entire town.

How was she supposed to get to Edhellond now?

* * *

Makalaurë frowned as he discovered the tracks. He hadn’t made it more than half a league, surely these couldn’t be it. Wilhelm was an excellent tracker, he wouldn’t have missed something like this.

But as he crouched to examine them further, he realized how fresh they were. There were several sets of footprints, and one horse. They were traveling quickly, but were likely using the animal to carry supplies.

He picked up the pace as he followed the prints, a cold feeling settling in his stomach as they curved around, heading in the direction of the village.

Rowan’s apprehension filled his mind, and he felt the insistence of his sword calling its twin.

Ríngilith was in danger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> to clear up some things:  
> \- mags found the adventurers when they were children that had wandered too far from home and gotten lost, they are now much older  
> \- the memory ríngilith is referring to happens in a fic i wrote called the last of the house of fëanáro, it isn’t necessary to understand this but they actually have met once before, it was like 4000 years ago tho so neither of them really remember it  
> \- quinn can sort of tap into the Music, they were taught by the best bard of all time so theres that, but they don’t necessarily have the innate power for it, so it’s quite difficult for them


End file.
